


Cold Indifference

by thesandworm



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dream Sex, Gore, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-TFA, general violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 11:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesandworm/pseuds/thesandworm
Summary: Hux has bad dreams. Kylo tries to comfort him.





	Cold Indifference

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago so apologies if there are any inconsistencies with the lore

Hux wakes up with tears in his eyes. 

He dreamt of a profound loss that he can’t seem to recall. He almost expects to be relieved that he is awake, that whatever he lost in that dream was there all along, but he still feels an ache for the precious mystery of that little thing his mind seemed to have fabricated; materialized from the stupid fancies of his subconscious and then swept away as easily as any vacuous emotional accessory should. Like a frivolous emotional attachment a child would still hold for its dead pet. He tells himself he’s glad it’s gone.

Perhaps he dreamt of the woman he used to call mother, like he did in the academy: it was strange to recall those years he spent haunted by the spectre of her death, considering she wasn't even his own blood. But he detaches that thought process before it has time to take root in his mind. His parents are both dead now, anyway, and that fateful moment her's had ended had been more than 15 years ago; he doesn’t care enough to count. The dream is pointless. The only thing he has to lose, after all, is his position as general. He is glad for the world of sharp edges and smooth surfaces that he made for himself. He doesn't mourn for the things he has lost; Hux wasn't made for such things. When he straightens his uniform and looks in the mirror, the redness in his eyes long gone, he reassures himself that he is proud of the reflection. Stern, cold, cleanly shaven and sharp of bone structure. His lithe frame is masked by his uniform, the symbol of his position as one of the most powerful men in the universe.

What else could he want?

-

Kylo Ren is a hooded specter, haunting Hux throughout the day, drifting ridiculously about in shadow as he is want to do when he has no task but to apparently irritate the general with his garish fatalism and childish self-obsession. Each time he catches a glimpse of that ridiculous helmet his urge to feel something snap beneath his hands almost boils over. He feels this often but never acts on it, these urges tamped down long before he could even think of getting promoted to general, his violent energy only focused into moments where bloodshed could benefit himself, help him climb the ranks and gain power. Such a thing wasn't particularly unusual in the old empire and certainly wasn't in the First Order, what with its poster boy being the very picture of pointless rages and excessive bloodshed. Not that Hux complained of the latter; Ren was on the ship precisely because of his lethal skills. Hux grew up in bloodshed and found it to be comforting, at certain times, and was thankful that the only officers the Knight had killed were officers that tended to be less than satisfactory with their performance. The useful ones were left alive because Hux had deemed them useful.

Yet with his infinite power he can't choke out his petty irritation at the monochromatic child that stomps throughout the ship with no objective in sight.

"Lord Ren." He figures he can put a stop to this and get Ren to actually be of use to him, somehow. He can manage. Ren stops in his tracks and mechanically turns his head to Hux.

"General." He says fondly, that irritating lilt to his distorted voice more mocking than friendly. "Sleep well?"

Hux sputters at this question, clenching his hands. "As if the quality of my sleep is of any concern to you." He chokes out, his objective forgotten momentarily.

Ren approaches. "It is when your nervous energy is so thick I can't keep it out of my head."

He doesn't bother to address that idiotic line of thinking. Hux doubts the legitimacy of Rens apparent ability to peer into the minds of others as he sees fit, and even if he could do so, hopes that he was skilled enough to manage to keep out of the head of a man who was about as force sensitive as a shoe. 

"Don't you have something important to be doing instead of antagonizing everyone you cross?"

"The only one who is antagonized by my presence is you, Hux."

He is shocked momentarily by the intimacy of his name, hearing it only uttered without its title by other officers who thought he was out of earshot or close-ranking personnel addressing him directly when he was off-duty and chose to spend his time relaxing in the presence of others, a rare occurrence for him. He can almost feel the smirk underneath Ren's ridiculous helmet. He's irritated, and to his annoyance often is, at the fact that he can't picture the face hidden from him, can't read his expression for himself and is left to fumble for the subtext of each of their often unsettling encounters. 

One particularly unsettling meeting happened when Ren was violently ripping through equipment with his hands, using the force to aid him. The irritating groan of metal twisting and warping under his hands was enough to urge Hux to make an attempt at calming the man down. On his approach he realized the metal had torn through Ren's gloves, and he saw shocking ribbons of red and white, blood and pale human skin, through the black fabric. The blood came as an unexpected disturbance to Hux's peace of mind; a part of him almost viewed the Knight as a personal phantom, perhaps an amalgamation of Hux's sins amplified and materialized from the cruel indifference of the universe, a twisted reflection of what Hux was supposed to be that was spit back out at him and given all the infallibility that came with being the Supreme Leader's pet. The blood proved a contradiction to this fantastical hypothesis and Hux was all the more intrigued by the vulnerability of the man in front of him; Hux had always been curious if the knight could be made to bleed. As if Ren could sense the general's realization, he turned and grasped the general's neck firmly in his large hand. Hux gave an open mouth gasp but wasn't alarmed, however, and wanted nothing more than to reach up and take off that irritating bucket to reveal the face of this specter, feel his heavy breath against his face as he rightly should, being so close to the man, as further proof that Ren was a living being instead of an otherworldly phantom, a conduit of the Supreme Leader's desires. 

He wanted to see the rage in his eyes and understand it was the same rage Hux felt. 

When Ren abruptly released his grip and walked away, Hux could see tufts of black hair peeking from underneath his helmet. The vestigial blood left on his neck was the only concrete proof of Hux's realization and was soon hurriedly washed down the drain in the closest refresher, along with any other sentiment the encounter might have left Hux with. That had only been a few weeks before, and he had been having fitful sleep ever since. He found himself searching for those tufts of black hair often after that, much to his chagrin. The next time he sees it he swears he'll grab it by the roots pull until he sees blood as punishment for occupying his mind so incessantly. 

He dismisses Ren with no argument, suddenly too tired of their bickering to deny the truth of Ren's words. Ren takes off his hood before walking away, black hair peeking out from underneath his helmet like a taunting gesture. Hux hates him.

He doesn't see Ren for the rest of the day. The chill of the harsh metal surfaces and the cold stale air, recycled endlessly through the ship’s machinery, becomes all the more evident.

-

That night he dreams of black hair soft like the way his mother would hold him after his father took out his anger, He feels his hands carding through the thickness, untangling knots and pleasantly pulling on the scalp, knowing it to be just a hair below too harsh, just the right amount of tenderness as if Hux had done this a thousand times before. He is curious to see the face attached to the soft hair but as hard as he tries can't find where it may lie. His curiosity is a sharp pin in his skin against a backdrop of ease in the presence of this calming action. It itches at his skull and he gets harsher, pulling frustratingly, searching and searching amidst a sea of blank faces and incomprehensibility. That calming presence flees, scared away by his almost violent aggravation and is replaced by a thick cloud of despair at its loss. His frustration mounts and he rips his hands away, still gripping whatever was in them and sees bits of skin and muscle tear away. Each place he touches turns red, suddenly, the shockingly bright liquid oozing down into pools below him. The red creeps up his arms, The skin it touches turns into a writhing mess of stinging muscle. He tries to escape but can’t; tries to yell but instead of a noise coming out it is gore, red and dark and thick. He silently apologizes for his sins, a repentance that came too late, superficial in the presence of his punishment. The red creeps up to his neck, organs sanguine and slippery falling from his chest, and suffocates until he finds himself awakened face down on his pillow, damp with tears.

Sitting up, blanket slipping from his bare chest, he knows it would be useless to go back to sleep. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and tries to ignore the feeling of being observed intently. The ship’s engine thunders beneath his feet before abruptly silencing. The air around him was still and uneasy, dust floating lazily in the darkness, inanimate in the absence of the engine’s rolling rumbles, a periodic cycle of stopping and starting and stopping again. They are an ever-present timepiece for those observant enough to notice. Hux grew up on ships and relied on the deep resonant sounds of large engines to lull him to sleep. He finds no solace in silence. He briefly contemplates returning to his work but his mind feels too hazy to do anything useful. What he needs is to be out of his claustrophobic room and in an open space, as open as he could find. 

He has patrolled the halls of the Finalizer more than a few times in an effort to relax himself. The nights on the ship in particular were relaxing. He never counted more than half a dozen officers or troopers on duty and none of them ever bothered engaging him when they crossed paths; to his delight he hasn’t seen anyone at all tonight. The artificial UV- bulbs were dimmed enough to simulate a night on a planet illuminated by a bright moon or two, their blue light not overly garish and harsh like it felt to him during the days when he suffered from a lack of sleep. His delicate footsteps make little sound on the cold metal floors, idle strides headed in the direction of the officer’s observation deck. He speeds up to escape the feeling that he’s being watched.

He arrives to find the deep expanse of space stretched out in front of him. Stars went on for light years in all directions, constellations indiscernible from the position the Finalizer was in, far away from any planet that might still hold to outdated practices like making shapes among the arbitrary loci of stars. Hux could pinpoint the locations of several dozen systems from what was visible to him; could name the officials of each inhabitable planet and say in detail what their dealings with the First Order had constituted of, if said planet hadn’t simply been eradicated. 

Hux sits himself on a chair as he muses, lighting a cigarette and scanning his eyes once more over the starscape in front of him, trying to shake off his paranoia. When the First Order was young, on the run and lead by no more than his father and other close officials, Hux visited many of these planets, bouncing back and forth, spending months and years on various sizes of ships and frigates while traveling. He held no attachments to any of the worlds; he would destroy them all if it meant acquiring stability in the galaxy. What fond memories he did hold were of their landscapes; trees towering seemingly miles above his head as he walked through the forest, lead by his so-called mother; expansive fields of open green and yellow from the gold of the system’s sun; water falling and colorful rings forming as the rays shone through the mist. He was born on Arkanis, a rainy and depressing planet, but doesn’t quite remember much from back then; perhaps just the feeling of mud beneath his feet and the smell of the thick humid air. Maratelle had told him how rare it was to see the sun shine through the clouds; probably only once or twice a month. She must have hated it there, all the years his parents spent on it, and was probably elated to find herself on a planet with sunshine. They lived in a cottage on a planet of rich green and blue, soon after that. Their small temporary home was covered in the blooming vines of a purplish flower, their pleasant scent occasionally wafting by in the lazy breeze; peonies, he remembers Maratelle saying now in her deep and delicate voice. The orange light dappled them, coming through the plant in patches. The purple-pink blossoms had an almost translucent quality in the light, shining through the paper thin petals.

Such things were superficial displays, as his father lectured Maratelle when she got too attached to a beautiful place as she had that cottage, and Hux doesn’t care much for scenery anymore. Space is just a cold lifeless vacuum, with the occasional blips of civilization to be put under the heel of the Order. He doesn’t concern himself with the sunshine and at times finds it an awful inconvenience. The beauty to be found within stars comes not from their light but from the power that they possess. The only planet he visits now is cold and harsh; a desolate mountainscape reaches up into the sky like decrepit fingers desperately grasping towards the sun for more warmth, jutting violently from the icy tundra. It holds no native population, is situated on the outskirts of the civilized galaxy, and is perfect in every way.

Ren was there when they found it, predicted its use like a dark omen. The memory of Ren, a stark black reaper against the expansive white of the landscape, sent a shiver down Hux’s spine. As soon as the specter crossed his mind it felt like he was there with him, unseen eyes boring into his back like a parasite digging into his skin. He exhales smoke in a huff of frustration. Ren was just as imposing then as he is now, taller than Hux and thicker too. He imagines it's because when Ren isn't annoying Hux he's spending all hours of the day training at Snoke's behest; sparring and meditating or whatever it is a not-quite-a-sith does to train. He does wonder what he does in his room when he's holed away for days at a time. Ren's room smelt like death, smoke and ruin wafted from its direction like a barrier. Would he light incense before he meditates, deeply inhaling as his mind wanders among the sweet smelling smoke? He knows he must take off that mask at least to sleep, so he must take it off for other tasks as well; his long black hair would hang in his face, or maybe he pulls it back in a loose bun to ease the distraction it would cause. He can't imagine how suffocating it must get in there. He must have some means of combat training available to him as well, as he had no reports of Ren ever using their equipment. It was clear that the knight had suffered no lack of training in this regard. On the battlefield the knight was like an angel of death; the combatants he met had no time register just who they were facing before they were cut down. His thick arms swung his saber like a battle axe, slashing and hacking relentlessly through the bodies. It was always a massacre, in the rare times that Hux had to be present for such things. When all is done blood and viscera decorate the landscape as if it had fallen from the sky, and Hux is left to marvel inwardly at the sheer power he possesses. 

The hands that tore apart those people were at his throat, once. 

He wonders if Ren dreamt of violence the way Hux does. Without warning a quiet voice whispers yes in his head, making Hux flinch and end that line of thought right away. He shivers and berates his own mind for getting the better of him. Showy displays of violence were enough to scare their enemies, but soon Hux would have the power to destroy planets at his command; a weapon by his own design powerful enough to bring the galaxy to its knees.

He shouldn't be wasting his thoughts on Ren, anyway. His psyche is still unnerved from that disturbing dream and feels delicate in the presence of whatever his tired mind imagined to be following him around. It's almost as if that presence is trying to comfort him, a warm foreign feeling tingling over his skin, but it feels to Hux like an unwelcome intruder; the delicate touch of a stranger, an invasive embrace. He shivers and takes a deep drag on his cigarette again, a momentary relief hitting him for a second before being exhaled into the air. He almost lets out a yelp when he flinches at the feeling of a hand dragging down his chest, but it vanishes as soon as it appears. Hux could feel his heartbeat in his ears; his lack of sleep is driving him crazy.

Still, as the sensations wash over him, he desires to give in to the feeling of relaxation. It wraps around him like a warm blanket as he leans back and lets out a groan of satisfaction, exhaling smoke into the air. His brain tingles with pleasure and his skin almost feels the warmth of the sun. Suddenly, pleasing memories wash over him like a wave, this time not voluntarily visited but tumbling towards him lazily and not resisted in his relaxation. He is lying with his mother in an open field, his head on her lap and hands extended into the air to watch the rays of the sun shine through the gaps in his fingers, except this time, he doesn't see the little smudge of his father approaching in the distance. He is reading holos about the old empire in his bed, hiding under a blanket in the heat of his breath and his wonder of the old world. He is at the academy, taking a hot shower, soothing water washing over his scratches and bruises after a day of combat training, watching the red of blood get sucked down the drain. He is in a closet at the academy with another boy, wet hot lips on him and breathing heavily in the darkness. The rush of memories stands still at this, although Hux can't even seem to recall the boy's name. What he can remember is his thick dark hair and soft brown eyes, and his husky voice. The lips drift down between Hux's legs. His hands grasp at the boy's dark hair perhaps a little too harshly but his grip is too hard to control in the presence of the soft tongue swirling around him. Hux gasps and is thankful no one is around to see him in this state. The boy licks up the length of his shaft and sucks at the tip. His hand tightens around the thick hair and pushes deeper into his mouth. The closet held supplies for the maintenance staff, and the air is thick with the scent of chemicals and sex even though it is just a memory. To some etent hux still associates the two, likely because of all the times he spent snuck away in here with different boys. He's fully present in this memory now, gripping at the boy's hair and fucking his mouth and watching his swollen lips wrap around its length. The boy makes delicate choking noises when Hux pushes too harshly, almost as if he's embarrassed. He remembers wanting to laugh at this. Instead of laughing, however, he groans when the tip of his cock meets the back of his throat and the boy makes little eager noises, vibrating around him.

When he opens his mouth to warn him how close he is, the eyes that meet his are from a different person; the face has changed. The lips are thicker, the nose is longer, with black eyes like buttons; wide and shiny with tears, colder than the ones before and intense with lust. They widen and suddenly the memory is gone.

Hux curses loudly when he’s suddenly brought back to reality and accidentally drops his lit cigarette in his lap. He jumps up out of his chair and snatches the cigarette, putting it out on the table next to the chair. Sighing heavily, he runs his hand through his hair and takes a moment to process what the fuck just happened. The memories felt real. He looks down to find the effects of those visions were very visible in his pants.

He heads back to his room as fast as he can to take a cold shower. The icy water against his skin is sobering and clears his mind. He must have drifted off again; the memories were dreams, the result of a sleep-starved and overworked mind. He grips himself after trying and failing to ignore the sorry state that he was in; he takes no pleasure in his release, pumping relentlessly and biting into his shoulder, trying not to picture strong arms or dark hair and certainly not those mysterious dark eyes. When he comes he bites hard enough to draw blood, groaning into his skin while he braced himself against the wall with his other hand. 

He exits the shower and gets back to work.


End file.
